


The Current

by EvanHart



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Clueless Illya, Embarrassed Napoleon, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gaby being a queen as usual, Gaby to the rescue, I know this is a dead fandom but I couldn’t resist, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Napoleon Solo is a mess, Napoleon has PTSD, Napoleon's confidence is actually a bit of a cover, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Illya, Spies & Secret Agents, author has PTSD so I know what I'm talking about, because I said so, but Illya is there to pick up the pieces, while Gaby shakes her head fondly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanHart/pseuds/EvanHart
Summary: There had been fear in his chest when he first saw Illya, tied up on a wooden chair with rope over his wrists and ankles and a solitary lightbulb above. He’d been terrified for his partner, yes, but as soon as the initial worries over the man’s health had been assuaged, a deep-seated panic had crawled into his mind at the sight. Restraints, a wooden chair, a single flickering bulb. Not exactly the makings of his favourite daydream.In which Napoleon suffers from PTSD and an inconvenient crush on his coworker, and Illya helps with both issues.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 50
Kudos: 387





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to The Man From U.N.C.L.E., this is a work of fanfiction created for no profit and I do not claim ownership over any characters.

The thing is, Napoleon Solo doesn’t _do_ relationships.

He really doesn’t. They’re difficult, and messy, and it would kind of hard to explain away the numerous authentic art pieces he owns, or why he has to disappear at strange moments, or be away for weeks on end. Even if he wasn’t a spy, or an art thief, he doubts he would have ever been able to settle down. He’s just not the type for it.

But then, on what was supposed to be a simple extraction in East Berlin, Illya Kuryakin had somehow managed to upend his entire worldview on attraction with his atrocious sense of style and impressive strength. And then, after that, he’d been just the right amount of snarky and endearing even when they quarrelled that Napoleon could practically feel himself falling. Just a passing fancy, he told himself, the man is built like a fucking _Adonis_ , for God’s sake – but then Illya rescues him from the chair at Vinciguerra and he realises that maybe it’s not just a fleeting infatuation. He seems to have developed a _crush_.

Somewhere between Vienna and Dublin the crush seems to have grown, but it’s not until they’re back in Rome that Napoleon understands how much of an issue this is going to be. The rescue from the hands of Uncle Rudi (and Napoleon would prefer never to think of that incident again, if only the nightmares would let him) showed him that Illya was not the machine he seemed to think he was. With Gaby, he was gentle and caring, and sometimes Napoleon got to see a little bit of that tenderness directed at him. 

When they’re in Rome the second time, nearly a year since the whole debacle with the Vinciguerra affair, Illya drags him out of a firefight and performs an emergency operation, digging out the bullet from his shoulder and bandaging the wound as effectively as possible until they can make it to a hospital. Normally, Napoleon knows that Illya is calm in the face of danger, but he _knows_ he saw fear in his partner’s eyes that night.

That very wound is why he’s benched right now, forced to sit alone in the hotel even though he’s fine, _honestly_ , he can barely feel the wound anymore. It’s been almost a month, and the bullet hadn’t even hit bone or gone in too deeply, so he’s stuck listening to their handler over the radio as Illya breaks into their target alone, with no backup. 

Even Gaby is working, off elsewhere with the head of the organisation they’re investigating, flirting and keeping him distracted and away from his lair.

It’s entirely too telling that’s he’s far more worried about Illya than he is about Gaby. He’s worried about her too, of course he is, but even though he knows Illya is supremely skilled and is fine on his own, Napoleon can’t stop his fingers from tapping nervously, sitting at the table in his hotel room and anxiously listening to the exchanges between Illya and the control team.

“Inside,” he hears Illya say, voice cracking electronically, short and to the point as ever. There are a few minutes of radio silence that follow the confirmation from control, and Napoleon wishes that he could be there, see what’s happening, have his partner’s back. He probably doesn’t need it, but it would make Napoleon feel better to know that he’s safe. 

Which, judging by the static that sounds when Illya misses his check-in, he’s not.

Napoleon listens with gritted teeth as Control tries to make contact, even going to far as to stand up and pull on a black jacket and shoulder holster while he waits. He grabs a gun from his arsenal and sticks a knife into the sheath in his boot, checking over his ammunition and selecting extra, pocketing it along with his lockpicks.

“Am surrounded,” he hears Illya’s voice, and rushes back over to the table. “Need assiss –“ his radio cuts out, and Napoleon slams a hand down on the polished wood as he listens to Control reporting that they’re sending backup. Illya’s radio is still receiving, it would appear, and continues to do so for another second before it cuts out entirely. On the other end, Control is trying to regain contact as they sort out who to send.

Napoleon makes a decision, one that Illya will probably take him to task for as soon a they’re done. “Don’t bother,” he says into the radio, sliding an earpiece on and reaching for the tracker that shows the location of the bug he’d put in Illya’s shoes, the same way the Russian had done to him. “I’m going in. I’ll get Kuryakin and the disk and get out.”

Control titters a bit, but ultimately, there’s nothing they can do to stop him and he’s already out the door when he hears the grudging affirmative from down the line. Waverly will likely be on him about this, too, in that sort of suppressed-disappointed manner he always adorns when they don’t follow regulations, but that’s a problem for later. 

Right now, he just needs to find Illya.

The compound is easy to find and even easier to get into, a fact that never ceases to surprise him. You’d think that the criminal underworld would much prefer to make their secret hideaways harder to infiltrate, but evidently the majority don’t have the brains or capability, or both.

Inside, he follows Illya’s tracker as stealthily as possible, making it all the way through two halls and one lab before he encounters a guard, which bodes well. It means there aren’t that many to take out. 

He drops the man quietly, hitting him over the head and lowering the man’s slumped body to the floor, stepping over his prone form before continuing onwards. Up ahead there’s a set of double doors with glass panels at eye height and he looks through, catching a glimpse of a larger room with whitewashed walls and about three guards surrounding a chair and two people.

Napoleon’s breath hitches as he sees what exactly is happening, Illya tied against the chair with a lightbulb casting his face into light from above as a man in a crisp suit stands in front of him, hands in pockets. There’s a moment where Napoleon can’t breathe, panic choking him as he sees the bulb and the chair and Illya, but it’s pushed down in a flash so he can focus on what he came to do.

It’s a simple matter to slip inside the room unnoticed, the door doesn’t make a sound as he steps inside, staying in the shadow at the edge by the walls as he lifts his pistol and takes aim. 

Two of the guards are down before the third reacts, the shots ringing out in the space and causing the remaining men’s eyes to snap to him. Napoleon shoots the last remaining guard, advancing until he’s about a yard away from the man in the suit, gun aimed directly at his heart. 

“If you would be so kind as to tell me the location of your plans, I would much appreciate it,” he says in Italian, watching the way the man’s face twists, obviously evaluating his situation. A second later, the man’s eyes flicker to the table at the edge of the room, where Napoleon can see Illya’s weapons and smashed radio lying on the surface, a black disk sitting next to them. “Much obliged,” he tells the man, keeping his gun pointed at him as he edges to the table and inspects the disk, glancing over the frayed wire sticking out the end.

Satisfied, he sticks the little device into his pocket and advances, hitting the suited man over the head and watching him crumple before stepping into Illya’s line of vision, eyes quickly raking over his form to check for obvious injuries. He can breathe easier when he finds none, slipping a cocky smirk back onto his face. 

“Need a hand?” he quips, revelling in the bitter glare thrown his way as he kneels on the ground to inspect the ropes. Simple ties, not too difficult to undo. “Control said you’d gotten into trouble.”

Illya looks at him. “They said they sent backup.”

“I’m the backup,” Napoleon grins, checking that the safety of his gun is on before he slides it into his holster.

“ _You_ , no,” Illya says, shaking his head. “You are not backup. _Gaby_ is backup.”

Napoleon sticks his bottom lip out a bit, pouting, a motion that earns him an annoyed scoff even as he reaches to untie the Russian’s ankles, ignoring the twinge from his shoulder as he does. “I'm offended. You didn’t specify when you radioed in,” he says petulantly, finishing with the knot and moving to start at his wrists. “Next time I’ll just leave you, shall I?”

“Fine,” Illya mutters, and Napoleon doubles down on the task at hand, shaking his head in exasperation.

There had been a fear in his chest when he first saw Illya, tied up on a wooden chair with rope over his wrists and ankles and a solitary lightbulb above. He’d been terrified for his partner, yes, but as soon as the initial worries over the man’s health had been assuaged, a deep-seated panic had crawled into his mind at the sight. Restraints, a wooden chair, a single flickering bulb. Not exactly the makings of his favourite daydream.

The dark feeling in his chest remains, but he manages to suppress it for now as the rope comes free. Napoleon stands, backing off a bit as Illya gets to his feet, rubbing the raw chafe marks on his wrists and stretching, keen blue eyes carefully evaluating the space they’ve found themselves in before turning to his saviour.

“We need to get disk,” Illya says, and Napoleon rolls his eyes. No thank you, as usual.

“Already have it,” he tells him, instead of snapping something back. He wiggles all ten fingers in the air, thinking about the little piece of technology in his pocket with the dangerously frayed bit of wire on one end. “Sticky fingers, can’t help it. Come on, we need to go.”

Illya watches as he taps the fabric over disk in his breast pocket, nodding in satisfaction before turning away to scope out the best escape route. Napoleon takes his momentary distraction to look him over again, double-checking that his initial assessment was correct and there’s nothing amiss. Illya’s hair is mussed, the hideous flatcap having disappeared, and Napoleon can’t deny the fact that he’s not saddened by its loss. Otherwise, Illya looks fine, a bit battered but that’s only to be suspected. He’s moving normally too, which means no broken bones. All in all, a relatively uneventful mission – for them, at least.

“Way in is compromised,” Illya announces, and Napoleon abruptly remembers that the mission isn’t actually done yet. He really needs to get this stupid crush under control, if it’s distracting him during routine extractions there’s definitely an issue that needs to be addressed. Besides, as far as he knows, Illya isn’t interested in men. Russia isn’t exactly encouraging in that sort of behaviour – though, to be fair, neither are the States. 

He snaps out of his musings – really needs to work on that as soon as possible – when Illya points at the exit on the far side of the room, the one that had been labelled as an employee entrance on the old blueprints they’d scrounged up beforehand.

“Good choice,” he says, and can’t resist patting the other man on the shoulder as he passes, heading straight towards the door without bothering to glance back. Behind him, he hears Illya grabbing his belongings from the table, following a few seconds later.

“There are still guards, Cowboy,” he warns, slipping one of his guns into his pocket and checking the ammunition on the other as Napoleon works on the door’s lock. “They will set alarm soon.”

“The alarm is already going off,” Napoleon says, fiddling with the keyhole until he hears the desired click. He stands up straight and opens the door, slipping through. “It’s a silent alarm,” he explains, pointing at the flashing lights dotting the hall and unholstering his custom Browning Hi-power, flicking the safety off as he moves down the hall, checking each open door before continuing. “Guess it made more sense in a noisy environment.”

Behind him, Illya hums, and Napoleon can practically feel the vibrations even if they’re nowhere near touching. God, he really _is_ desperate, isn’t he? Maybe after they get back to the hotel he can find a bottle of scotch and drink himself into oblivion. Perhaps Gaby will join him, even if she and Illya share absolutely dismal tastes in alcohol. Napoleon had tried to hammer it into them both that straight vodka is not the best option when it comes to a nice drink, but so far, neither of them had bothered to heed his advice.

“Cowboy,” Illya says, low and warning, and Napoleon can hear the voices coming from the far end of the hall. He pauses, listening, and when there’s the distinct sound of a search order being barked finds himself dragged backwards, into a tiny alcove in the wall he’d barely noticed was there.

Illya presses right up against him in their hiding place, and Napoleon is so far gone on the adrenaline that he can’t quite manage to stop himself.

“Oh, _hello_ ,” he practically purrs, lips curving into what he knows from years of practice is a salacious smile. “Is that a gun I feel in your pocket, Peril, or are you just happy to see me?”

Illya glares at him, and Napoleon can’t see if he blushes, but he definitely tenses. “Of course it is fucking gun,” he hisses, but his voice sounds ever so slightly strangled. “Please _shut up_.”

Napoleon grins, opening his mouth to respond, but the sound of running footsteps from around the corner stops him, and instead all that comes out is an embarrassing sort of little whine when Illya presses even closer, crowding him back against the wall. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, Napoleon thinks, even if he knows the hard line pressing just above his hip is Illya’s backup pistol and not… well, not something _else_.

The footsteps pass them by and there’s a few tense seconds where they wait for them to recede fully, and as soon as they do Illya backs up. Napoleon tries not to think about how much he misses the feeling of his partner’s body up against him, but it’s a bit hard with how the front of his trousers feel a little more cramped than before. It doesn’t help that now that Illya had backed up, the light falling onto his tall figure, Napoleon can see the remnants of a fleeting blush high on his cheekbones and at the tips of his ears. Small comforts.

“We have disk,” Illya says, still relatively quiet considering their position. “Time to go.” 

Immediately after he says it, he’s off – leaving Napoleon to curse quietly and run after him. Illya is surprisingly fast, and he’s tall, so it takes a minute before Napoleon actually manages to catch up completely. Stupid fucking Russians and their long legs. 

They make it to the outside with little difficulty, and Napoleon’s shoulder twinges again as he puts pressure on it by leaning on the wall as he checks for any guards in their path. He thinks he hides the slight discomfort rather well, but Illya is looking at him with no little amount of concern, which is ironic considering the position he himself had just been in.

“You okay, Cowboy?” he asks, and there’s no sign of any worry in his voice, which is good, because right now Napoleon wants to focus on escaping, not whatever it is that his heart does when Illya shows he cares.

“Bit rich coming from you, Peril,” he responds snippily, looking across the expanse of open ground they have to cover to get to the chain link fence separating them from the outside world. “I’m fine. Just a slight ache.” He checks for any lingering guards, but it seems most of them have been called away to the place they had initially broken in, which is helpful for their escape. “Come on, let’s go.”

Deeming it safe enough, he darts over the terrain, keeping his body low to the ground, the crunch of gravel under his and Illya’s boots the only sound he makes out as they make it to the far end. Illya gets out his magic laser – as Napoleon had taken to calling it, much to his partner’s chagrin – and cuts through the metal links quickly, holding the sides open and gesturing Napoleon through first. He goes, rolling his eyes at the show of chivalry.

“Leave the gentlemanly behaviour for Gaby,” he says, and it comes out more sharply than he had intended.

Illya frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Just saying,” Napoleon says, grimacing, making his way for the first car he sees, intent on hotwiring it and getting back to the hotel as soon as possible. “A fellow might get the wrong idea.”

Illya frowns even harder, and Napoleon sighs. They’ve retrieved the material, they got the disk, all with relatively few snags. Best to drop it for now and dissect his ridiculously inconvenient crush later, _alone_. It’s not going to interfere with completing the mission.

Absolutely not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so in this part, some unhealthy coping mechanisms are mentioned very briefly and Napoleon gets shocked very slightly from a wire, nothing much more than a small shock, like when your hand is too close to the metal when plugging something in. It's tiny, I just wanted to mention it beforehand.

The drive back to the hotel is made mostly in silence, other than the brief giving of directions, and although the car they hotwired is spacious and roomy, Napoleon feels cramped in the metal interior.

His initial panic at Illya going missing, and then the subsequent necessary rescue, has thankfully all but disappeared, leaving behind only a faint sensation in his abdomen that settles, heavy and insistent, over his diaphragm, slightly obstructing his breathing. It’s miniscule, and he doesn’t have a name for it, that’s how small it is – but he can’t seem to hide how he’s breathing slightly heavier than usual.

Illya notices, because of course he does.

“Cowboy,” he says, hesitantly, like he’s worried. He probably is, Napoleon has to concede, because of course the person he just had to go and fall in love with is the most selfless person in the world – at least when it comes to his partners – never mind the fact that he had been captured during what was supposed to be a routine operation. 

And hey, wait a minute – when had he transitioned from a simple crush to _love_?

“Eyes on the road, Peril,” Napoleon reminds him, only so that he doesn’t have to answer. Illya purses his lips, and from what Napoleon can see out of the corner of his eye, he looks like he wants to press further but graciously doesn’t push it. Another mercy to spare Napoleon having to talk about his failings.

Because that’s what they are, really. _Failings_. He knows he’s emotionally compromised, can’t help it, really – not with the way Gaby laughs with him and Illya will smile indulgently at his antics. But this isn’t just because Illya is his partner, or even because he’s swiftly become basically Napoleon’s only real friend next to Gaby, it’s because he can’t seem to stop feeling.

It’s a dangerous thing, for an art thief, for a _spy_. Caring is fine - expected, even - but caring so much that he gets distracted during missions? No. And not even just by difficult things, by Illya getting captured or hurt or other dangerous endeavours. It’s getting distracted by the way the light catches Illya’s hair, turning it golden, or how the man’s fingers curl around the trigger of his gun. And it’s worse than that, a fact that he’s only recently come to admit to himself, because he doesn’t just appreciate the aesthetics.

Those are all well and good, really, they are - Illya is undeniably an attractive man – but they’re not all. More often than not, Napoleon finds himself focusing more on how Illya phrases sentences in their reports to Control, or how he always checks for multiple exits not just out of habit, but something deeper, primal. It’s the way he can switch from hardened KGB agent to gentle when Gaby gets hurt even slightly, or angry and about to descend into rage until Napoleon manages to calm him down with soothing motions and well-timed quips.

So, yeah, alright. Maybe it _is_ love.

A dangerous thing, especially for a man like him, who doesn’t know how to have some that’s his, something permanent. He’s fairly sure Illya is the same in that regard, actually, and it’s annoying how that feels more like encouragement than the dissuasion it should clearly be. Maybe it’s time he put in a request for a transfer.

But no, that isn’t right either. The issue with being in love, Napoleon realises, is that he’s still himself. Still selfish, still wanting, and the thought of leaving is repulsive. He’s greedy enough that he’ll stay and soak up whatever residual warmth Illya can give him.

Maybe, he thinks – and he knows he’s only thinking about this now to try and stave off whatever dark thing is still settled over his lungs – maybe this is enough.

The car jolts over a pothole and Napoleon vaguely hears Illya’s curse, too distracted by the way one of the streetlights flashes into his eyes. All of a sudden, he’s transported: back at Vinciguerra with a swinging lightbulb, tied in a chair, volts of electricity coursing through his veins. 

The memory is gone as soon as it came and he’s left blinking, still breathing a bit heavier than usual, the dark feeling growing slightly in size.

Illya looks over at him again. “We are almost at hotel,” he says, and Napoleon is grateful that it’s not another attempt to gauge how he’s doing. Illya knows about his nightmares, he’s sure – they’ve slept in close quarters often enough that it would be impossible not to, but he never says anything. A look of assessment the morning after, a silent offering of alcohol or a cigarette, but no words. And Napoleon is fine with it, more than, in fact. It means he doesn’t have to try and explain.

He’s not sure if he _can_ , actually. He doesn’t know how. Illya might understand, God knows the man has his own set of issues, but even so, Napoleon has no idea how to put the feeling into words.

The good thing is, this issue doesn’t affect his work. He may be a little tired after being kept up all night, yes – but that’s nothing a strong coffee in the morning can’t help. It’s not affected work at all, at least, not until tonight. Not until he saw the wooden chair and the restraints and the single lightbulb that he hadn’t immediately understood as being the trigger for… for whatever _this_ is.

The fact that it was _Illya_ in the chair doesn’t help either. As much as he hated that place, that ordeal he was subjected to, he wants his partner to be subjected to it even less.

It’s stupid to dwell on it, anyways, they got out fine and neither of them was hurt.

Illya parks the car about half a mile away from the hotel, far enough that it’s inconspicuous and not quickly connected, but not too far that they can’t walk the distance easily. Napoleon could have walked much farther, and for longer, but he finds the dark thing has made him tired, almost feeling weighed down. His breathing still hasn’t evened out completely, and it’s been to long for him to be able to simply blame it on the adrenaline. Illya doesn’t ask, but he can tell that he parked the car so close to make it easier for Napoleon. He’s grateful, even if neither of them would ever explain themselves in so many words. 

Gaby is waiting for them when they arrive, grouped together in Illya’s hotel room that they all inexplicably know is the safest, the one that has the most thorough sweeping done for bugs or any other devices, and the one with a large number of weapons presumably strewn throughout, stashed in places that are inconspicuous but easily accessible. 

Illya’s radio was smashed, so he uses Napoleon’s to report in to Control, before coming to the main room where Gaby and Napoleon have taken up residence on the floor in front of the loveseat, assembling the reader between them so they can find out what’s on the disk. It looks like the one they’d been sent to retrieve, but they want to make absolutely certain, lest they forward Waverly inane information on the menu of a new restaurant branch. They’d done that once before, and Napoleon still maintains that it wasn’t his fault.

The dark feeling in his chest is still there, and although it had grown slightly larger during the car ride, it seems to have settled now – not diminishing, but not increasing, either. He tries to distract himself with the technology in his hands and the familiar sounds of Gaby’s voice.

“She was wearing the most _atrocious_ knock-off Givenchy I’d ever seen,” Gaby is saying, fiddling with the dials in her hand as she fits them onto the device. Napoleon can’t help the smile that crawls onto his face at her words, remembering her in her dirty boilersuit the night they’d first met. She’s come a long way from being a chop-shop mechanic, even if the skills learnt there have come in very useful a number of times. “And really,” she continues. “The count himself could do better than wearing a Paco Rabanne suit from three seasons ago.”

“You have dress from three seasons ago,” Illya points out, and Gaby rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, but I’d never wear it to such an event,” she scoffs. “You do not go to a private opera at the Barberini in an out-of-date outfit. Napoleon, you wouldn’t be caught dead in an old suit at a place like that.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “I certainly would not,” he says, shuddering for effect and realising almost immediately that the motion is not at all conducive to trying to power up the device. Illya smirks at him, and he studiously ignores the way his stomach flips at the sight. He clears his throat. “I would have had an entirely new suit made up for the occasion. And _not_ Paco Rabanne, I do have some taste. Guy Laroche would be appropriate.”

“I thought you own many Paco Rabanne suits,” Illya remarks, settling down on the floor opposite the couch, watching the two of them work.

“I do,” Napoleon replies, keeping his eyes on the device in front of him. “But there’s a difference. Gaby wouldn’t wear a Mary Quant to a private opera performance either.”

Gaby hums in approval, but it’s nothing compared to the way Illya’s chuckle makes his hand slip as he presses the button to turn the machine on. His hands are shaky anyways, something that he thinks has more to do with the way the dark feeling is still lingering, being supressed, than it does with Illya’s chuckle, which he’s heard before. Not too often, but enough that it’s not entirely foreign.

Illya seems to notice the slight trembling, though, if the way he cuts off his laughter and frowns slightly, sitting forward a bit. Napoleon likes to think that he’s managed to get his breathing back under control, but evidently that came with sacrificing the steadiness of his hands. It’s alright, he can still finish the job at hand. There’s no need to pause now that they’re so close.

“Cowboy, are you okay?” Illya asks, dashing all of Napoleon’s hopes of continuing without making a big deal out of his gradually decaying composure. “You are shaking.”

Gaby looks up at him, frowning slightly. “Napoleon?”

“I’m fine,” he says, and smiles encouragingly at the two of them when their faces turn sceptical. “Really, it’s nothing. Just an ache from my shoulder, that’s all. Must have strained it going in tonight. It’s mostly healed, you know, but I guess there’s still some bits that need finishing up.” He’s rambling, he realises, shutting his mouth with a snap and trying to ignore the way Illya and Gaby exchange a look. Rambling is one of his tells, he knows it himself, knows that although he talks a lot he only talks entirely meaninglessly when he’s nervous. Apparently, his partners have figured that out.

He’s not sure how they had. He’d been keeping such a tight hold on himself, displaying only the suave, cool, confident man they’d met almost a year ago in Berlin. It’s been hard, but nothing a good night of sleep (if the nightmares let him) and a copious amount of alcohol couldn’t cure. He’s been surviving on his own for such a long time that it’s difficult to let anyone else in, lest they don’t like what they find and abandon him like so many others have done before.

And that’s the core of it all, isn’t it? His perfectly maintained exterior is so often in juxtaposition to what he feels, and although, yeah, he likes his persona – it suits him, people like it, and it’s not entirely inaccurate to his real self – but sometimes it’s not true. Sometimes he wishes he could just let it all go and break down the same way others get to.

But he doesn’t, because he’s Napoleon Solo. He _can’t_ be anything other than confident, can’t risk letting everyone else down. Illya, Gaby, even Waverly. They know him as someone who can shake off being tortured or shot, not as someone who is on the verge of panic after spotting a set-up that’s only remotely similar to the one that he’d been held in at Vinciguerra. 

“Let’s see if this was worth it,” he says, doing what he does best and avoiding the real problem. Instead he reaches into his breast pocket and fishes out the disk with the frayed wire, slotting it into the place in the reader to make sure that it’s authentic. He can practically feel Gaby and Illya communicating silently over his head as he works, but he does his best to focus on the disk.

The tech they have is primitive, small and compact, but even with the tiny reader it’s enough to know that the disk is legitimate. They really had managed to pull off the mission without any real issues. 

“It’s the right one?” Gaby asks, and Napoleon checks the information one more time. He can feel Illya watching him as he does.

“It is,” he confirms, making sure that the disk is running properly. “Another extraction done. Good on us, I say.”

Illya is quiet, and Napoleon is well aware that he’s still shaking slightly, no matter how much he tries to push through it. He clears his throat uncomfortably, and watches the red fabric of Gaby’s dress shift as she moves.

“Waverly will be pleased,” she remarks, and her voice is still too gentle, too soft, but at least she’s not asking any questions. “I can bring this to Control before I go to bed.”

“Perfect, I’ll just clear all of this up,” Napoleon says a little too quickly, reaching towards the device. “You can get it all wrapped up a bow for Waverly and finally change out of that dress, Miss Teller.” She grins at him and he’s relieved that she’s let his issue go – _seems_ to have, at least. He grabs the disk and goes to pull it out of the slot, when his finger brushes against the frayed wire at the end of it. A small electric shock sparks at the contact and fizzles through his hand, a small snap ringing out in the room. It’s tiny, lasting only a second, but it’s still too much.

Napoleon freezes, and suddenly all he can feel is an overwhelming mixture of fear and panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's happening here is Napoleon is experiencing the beginning stages of a panic attack. Naturally, not every panic attack is the same and not everyone experiences PTSD the same way, so I'm basing this off of what I experience sometimes, which is when visual triggers affect me and the second a physical trigger occurs, I snap. The next chapter will have descriptions of the full panic attack, and I will add warnings in the tags. It's not bad, per se, but it can be distressing to people who have PTSD or any other sort of anxiety disorder so I want to make sure everything is clear.
> 
> Hopefully you're still enjoying it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon experiences a full-blown panic attack in this. It's not overly bad, or anything, just be aware that it happens right at the beginning.

Some small sensations manage to flicker through what’s left of his barely-coherent brain. The red fabric of Gaby’s dress shifting as she darts forward in alarm, the feeling of Illya’s hands on his shoulders, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall opposite. They’re all just flashes, nothing actually lingers, his mind transformed into a practical desert with an approaching tornado.

It’s windy, and messy, and the tornado moves at frankly alarming speeds until he’s completely overwhelmed, devoid of any conscious thought in the midst of the chaos and confusion.

Fear and panic are the only two easily identifiable parts to any of this, both mixing and blending together so quickly that they’re soon too tangled up in one another to differentiate, taking over anything in their path and wreaking havoc in every direction. Napoleon can hardly remember his own _name_ in this whirlwind of terror, the only thing that remains consistent is the sheer fright he can feel enveloping him.

There’s no rational comprehension, not at all, and what thoughts he _does_ experience are confusing and brief, flashes of light and the feeling of wood under his palms, a man speaking in a German accent and the copper taste of blood.

Soon enough, even the faint things he could remember and feel are gone, replaced with the insurmountable wave of panic washing over everything, the fear right there with it to decimate anything that may have survived. It’s quick, and brutal, and entirely merciless.

Soon enough, it descends into something worse.

Soon enough, there’s nothing left but a whited-out slate of blank space.

It’s not calm, or peaceful – the place is stark and empty but at the same time it’s so _full_ , overwhelming and pressing and ripping him apart to float in the abyss, untethered and completely alone. He’s sinking, he can feel the flashing light getting closer and shocks running through his entire body, dragging him down, down, _down_ – 

He can’t stand it, it’s too much, and he wants to scream but his mouth won’t open, wants to run but his legs won’t work, wants to flail and scratch his eyes out and shrivel up and _die_ but his body won’t obey him and nothing is working and he’s trapped, unmoving but still falling, drowning and gasping in the current of skin-crawling terror, his body feels unconnected but the pushing edges of fear and panic are still pressing against him, expanding while he does not shrink, shoving and forcing him to collapse in on himself like his mind is a dying star and he’s the black hole at the centre of it.

And then, suddenly, everything goes still.

The fear and panic and terror are still there, still pressing, but it’s not all he can feel now. There’s something else, something nudging at the edges and demanding to be let in. It’s not something _bad_ , he doesn’t think. It can’t be, it doesn’t feel like it.

Vaguely, distantly, he can hear words start to filter in.

He can’t quite understand what they’re saying, maybe it’s another language, but the feeling they bring with them is awash with _calm_ and _peace_ and _safety_ , and he can’t help but follow the words, drifting away from the horrible emptiness and contradicting all-consuming fear.

_Napoleon_ , he hears the voice whisper, calling out to him, and that’s his name. He knows it, again, can remember it – and just like that the pull of the voice becomes stronger, tugging him steadfastly away from the dangers behind, the flashing light and excruciating shocks he can still feel crawling over his skin even as he leaves. They’re fading, and he trusts the voice to lead him away from the suffering he’s been trapped in.

The second thing he hears is a German accent, and his breathing speeds back up to dangerous levels as he scrambles back.

_It’s Gaby_ , he hears the first reassuring voice say, calm and soothing. _Gaby Teller. She is your partner_.

The German voice is back and Napoleon blinks, still unseeing, but finally able to realise that the first voice is right, because the German accent is coming from a woman, not a man. Not Rudi here to tell him another bedtime story riddled with nightmares.

Gaby.

The name rings a bell, and in his mind’s eye an image of a laughing brunette is supplied, bringing with it feelings of happiness and trust and affection. He knows Gaby. She won’t hurt him. He stops his desperate motions to get away.

_Good_ , the first voice says, and he knows that voice too. _Focus on me, you need to breathe steady_. He knows that voice, knows the inflections and lilts, has spent months studying them when he probably should have been focusing on other things. The hands on his shoulders, grasping gently but firmly, are familiar too, and soon enough the image of Gaby is joined by that of a man, tall and strong and resplendent in his beauty. 

Though, Napoleon thinks, he may be just a little bit biased.

Illya is there, Illya is grounding him, and the slight sense of humour starting to creep back into his consciousness reminds him that he doesn’t just know panic and fear and terror, and with that thought comes the hope and determination. He blinks again, twice, three times – and slowly the room starts to swim back into view.

There’s Gaby, kneeling before him, the disk and reader swept aside so she can be closer. The disk itself is still partially inside the slot, and Napoleon has to force himself away before he throws up. It’s so _stupid_ , the thing is tiny and can’t really hurt him, and the shock was no more painful than the little static electricity that comes from rubbing socked feet on a carpet. Such a small thing should not have this much power over him.

It’s _pathetic_.

Gaby and Illya are going to be disgusted with him, that he can’t even hold it together from something so miniscule, so irrational, something that everyone else would forget the second after it happened. He wants to run, he _has_ to run – needs to get away before he sees the pity in their eyes, the rejection – 

“You’re okay, Cowboy,” comes a voice from his side and he turns, looking up into the concerned eyes of Illya. He’s crouched next to him in what must be an uncomfortable position, but the grip of his hands on Napoleon’s shoulders is firm and unwavering, reassuring. There’s no pity there, just worry.

“Illya?” he manages to gasp out, and the man himself smiles at the sound of his name.

“Yes,” he confirms, nodding ever so slightly. “We are in hotel in Rome. We are all safe, the mission is done. There is no electricity near you.”

Napoleon heaves at the word and Illya is instantly there supporting him, one of his hands slipping down to rest against his back as Napoleon lurches forward involuntarily, memories of the torture at Vinciguerra resurfacing. 

“Easy,” Illya tells him, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. “все нормально. You’re alright, you’re _safe_.” Napoleon looks up at his partner, and the concern and overwhelming support alongside something else that he can’t quite decipher is too much, so he whips his head away to look out in front of him at his other partner.

Gaby stares at him, eyes wide, her dress all rumpled and face stained with tear tracks. Napoleon’s chest seizes at the sight, a familiar feeling of self-loathing rising in him at the realisation that oh God, shit, he’s the reason for her tears. He never wants to be the one to hurt her, ever.

He curls in on himself, bile rising in his throat and the panic staring to remerge, when strong arms wrap around his shoulders and he’s pulled up against Illya’s chest, which on any other occasion, he’d be ecstatic about.

“Is okay,” Illya tells him, his voice a rumbling vibration just above his left ear. “You’re okay, you didn’t hurt anyone. We are fine.”

“Napoleon,” Gaby says slowly, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. “Napoleon,” she repeats, with a bit more confidence. “I’m fine, you’re alright. You didn’t hurt me, or anything, I was just worried about you. _God_ , Napoleon, are you alright?” He’s still shaking, and out of the corner of his eye he can see her extend a hand, the ring with the tracker resting in its usual spot. “I’m fine, see?”

“Gaby,” he manages to choke out, and her face twists as she moves closer, looking for all the world like she wants to rush him and wrap him in a hug, but is holding back. Napoleon’s grateful, it’s already almost too much being in Illya’s arms, and although he’s hugged Gaby far more often, he’s not sure he’d be able to handle more than one person touching him right now. “Gaby,” he says again, voice apologetic.

Her face softens, and she settles down cross-legged directly in front of him. Not close enough to touch, even if one of them shifted accidentally, but not so far that neither would be able to reach. 

Napoleon feels his heart slow down a little bit at her quiet acceptance of the situation, the understanding he sees in her eyes that he’s not pushing her away. The hand on his shoulder squeezes again, the other still rubbing comforting circles, and Napoleon closes his eyes. He’s still tense, likely will be for some time, but the initial panic of having his partners, his _friends_ , see him in such a weakened state is lessening, shrinking away until it’s almost nothing. 

It’s still there, and it will eventually need to be addressed – he knows that, even if it’s something he doesn’t ever want to have to think about – but for now it’s alright. It can wait.

“You’re calming down now,” Illya notes, and Napoleon realises that the hand on his back is perfectly positioned to feel for his heartbeat, measuring out the length between beats to determine how he’s doing. “Do you want something? Drink?”

“Not really,” Napoleon says, and he’s proud that he managed two words. It’s an improvement to the monosyllabic attempts at his partners’ names, and it’s definitely a step up from the hours he’s spent shaking in his room, alone, unable to say a word even to himself.

Illya hums, and again the vibrations run down to Napoleon’s ear. He shivers, not entirely negatively, this time. “Is probably good idea,” Illya mutters, and despite the concern he can hear there’s something looser underneath. “Do not want you throwing up on us.”

“I won’t throw up,” Napoleon protests weakly, but his stomach rolls at the mere thought of drinking. “Actually, maybe not.”

“Is probably for the best,” Illya agrees, hand resuming its slow circles. “But you need to drink later. You will be dehydrated.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes, because the matter-of-fact statements, the calm concern, the assertiveness – it’s all so Illya. It’s all part of the things that makes Napoleon love him more. “Alright,” he breathes, closing his eyes again and breathing in deeply, feeling himself relax more. He waits a moment before looking over at Gaby, doing his best to smile. It probably comes out more like pained, but that can’t be helped. “I’m okay,” he tells her, as confidently as he can.

Gaby nods, but there’s still a frown on her face. “Why?” she asks, voice breaking slightly. “Why did this happen?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. This is actually based on what I experience and remember during certain panic attacks of mine, of course, not everyone experiences PTSD the same way. I hope you enjoyed it and I'll hopefully get the last part up the same time tomorrow!


	4. Chapter 4

_Why did this happen?_

Napoleon must have been silent in the wake of that question for too long, because Gaby sits back, lifting her hands in a placating gesture.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” Gaby hastens to say, eyes widening in alarm as she sits back, palms spread open and unthreatening. “I really don’t want to make you upset again. I want to understand, but only if you’re able to tell me.”

It’s… surprisingly hard to answer that question. Napoleon’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he looks away, cheeks burning with equal parts exertion and shame. Of course Gaby doesn’t understand, she’d not been in the army, she hasn’t been tortured. It’s with a bitter taste on his tongue that Napoleon realises that someday, she _might_. She’s a spy. She’s bound to get hurt sooner or later.

He won’t let that happen. He’ll never let what’s happened to him happen to her.

Illya’s hands move, and Napoleon wants to say no, come back, but before he can protest he’s pulled back into a partial embrace, slumped down a little farther on the floor with his head resting against his partner’s lower chest, one of Illya’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and other one reaching down to gently, but firmly, pry his hands apart. Napoleon hadn’t even noticed he was clenching them, and stares down at the four perfect semicircles on either palm in something akin to shock. They’re lightly bloodied, but the wounds are superficial and will heal soon.

He’s given no time to ruminate on them before Illya’s hand falls across both of his, blocking the new marks from sight. “Do you want me to tell her?” he asks softly, and Napoleon still isn’t entirely sure how he knows – but then again, it’s _Illya_. He’s observant, he watches. He probably understands better than anyone.

“You can explain what it is,” he decides eventually, not daring to look either of his partners in the eye. “I can tell her _why_ , I just… I need a minute.”

“Okay.” He can feel the slight shift as Illya nods and turns to Gaby. “You have heard of shell shock, yes?”

Napoleon can just see the edge of Gaby’s dress, her fingers twisting the hemline nervously. “Yes,” she answers, and her voice is surprisingly steady. “But… that’s from _wars_. Does it stay this long?”

“Sometimes,” Illya responds, still using that calm tone that Napoleon recognises from when he explains things to Gaby. She’s still relatively new in this business, but she picks it up quick. Neither of them has ever had to repeat an explanation. “It is like that. This one is not from war, no, but from traumatic event. I do not know if there is name for it yet.”

“Gross stress reaction,” Napoleon mumbles, remembering what he’d read in the DSM-I. It had been a while, before the event even happened, but his own shell shock from the war had been enough to make him look into it. There’s no help for it, not really, and he’s too proud to ask anyhow.

“That is it,” Illya says, and Napoleon feels him nod again. Gaby is silent, hanging on every word. “It is like large panic attack when fight or flight response is triggered. Memories of event.”

There’s a slight pause, and Napoleon slowly, tentatively, starts to trail over the back of Illya’s hand, tracing the knuckles and following the wrinkles there. The hand twitches, briefly giving Napoleon’s a squeeze.

“So, something happened – ” Gaby starts, but is cut off by the sound of the door opening without preamble. In an instant, all three of them are alert and sitting up, eyes trained on the entrance. Gaby somehow has gotten hold of a knife and there’s a gun cocked in Illya’s hand, and Napoleon might be out of it, but he knows exactly where his holster is and where the escape routes are. There’s a tense second before they let out a collective breath, sighing in relief when Waverly comes into view, suit impeccable as ever.

Napoleon relaxes back against Illya’s chest and his partner rubs his shoulder comfortingly, Gaby sinking back to the floor from where she’d hurried into a half-kneeling position, ready to lunge.

“It’s alright, it’s just me,” Waverly says cheerfully, moving to sit on the loveseat and looking down, his expression twisting into a frown. “Oh dear. Solo, are you quite alright?”

“’M’fine,” Napoleon mumbles, more than a little embarrassed by the fact that not only are his friends seeing him like this, but now his _boss_ is, too. “Nothing to worry about.”

Waverly hums. “Well, excuse me for saying this, Solo, but you’re my agent. It’s my job to worry about you.”

“You don’t have to,” Napoleon protests, more out of habit than anything else. He’s been in Waverly’s employ for almost a year, now, and although he doesn’t trust the man entirely – he’s been around Sanders’ type too often for that – he’s come to realise that the old man actually does care more for his staff than any of the other handlers or directors Napoleon’s met. Maybe it’s a British thing.

“I know I don’t have to,” Waverly agrees conversationally, as if this is the type of thing he deals with everyday. Which, granted, maybe it is. “But I hope you’ll forgive me for doing it all the same. If you’re going to be unhelpful, I’ll ask your partners. Kuryakin, what happened?”

Illya hesitates, and Napoleon loves him all the more for it. He squeezes his partner’s hand to tell him that it’s alright.

“He was shocked by wire,” Illya explains, voice rough. “Had flashback.”

Napoleon sees Waverly grimace. “Ah,” he says, straightening his cuffs. “Yes, that would explain things. And in Rome, to boot. I can’t imagine those are good memories.”

“No,” Napoleon agrees, and has to look away. His boss is watching him with a completely neutral expression, but there’s still a note of sympathy there that’s too much. He’s got enough coming from Illya, and he knows that Waverly probably _does_ understand, has likely had his own fair share of adventures that ended in catastrophe, but he doesn’t want to talk about it with him.

Waverly, of course, seems to pick up on that immediately, and doesn’t say anything else.

It’s Gaby who does, resuming her fiddling with the fabric of her skirt. “I still don’t understand,” she blurts out, and Illya’s hand tightens around his shoulders for just a moment as Napoleon looks up. He sighs, seeing the confusion and hurt and the tiny ounce of fear there. She deserves to know. She’s going to find out sooner or later, anyways, and he’d rather do it now than have her find out on her own.

“I was tortured,” he says, simply, brutally honest. To her credit, Gaby doesn’t gasp, but her lips thin. “Electrocuted. Right here, in Rome, almost a year ago. Victoria Vinciguerra drugged me and strapped me to a chair.” He pauses, and looks away. He can’t bear to meet her eyes when he continues, gaze falling to her hands instead. “Rudi thought it would be fun to torture me for the hell of it. Kept me there and told me a lovely story of everyone he’d hurt before and where I fit into the picture.” Gaby’s hands are frozen stiff, and Illya holds him tighter. “I don’t know how long I was there. It felt like forever before Peril here came to the rescue.”

He risks a glance up, only to find Gaby staring at him, eyes brimming with tears. 

“Napoleon…” she breathes, and she’s scared, and hurting, and all of a sudden Napoleon understands that he was right in his reasoning not to tell her, but for a different reason. She feels guilty. “It’s all my fault,” she says, voice breaking, and although Napoleon wants to stay where he is in Illya’s arms forever, seeing Gaby crying is more than he can bear and he leans forward, shuffling the few inches between them on his knees, wrapping her in a hug. 

“It’s _not_ your fault,” he tells her, feeling her sniffle against his shoulder, ruining a very expensive shirt that he would be horribly upset about at any other point in time. There’s a slight pressure on the small of his back that tells him Illya is still reaching out, still comforting, and that little fact makes him feel slightly more confident. “It’s not your fault,” he repeats.

“It _is_ ,” Gaby insists, “If I hadn’t betrayed you, you would have been fine, you wouldn’t have – ”

Napoleon shushes her. “You did what you had to do,” he interrupts, unwilling to hear any more of her self-deprecating speak. He supplies enough of that for the both of them, and he’s sure Illya does too. They’re one little cozy messed-up family. “It’s not your fault, and besides, I’m here, I’m fine.”

“You’re not, though, are you,” Gaby retorts, and it’s more of a statement than a question.

Napoleon sighs and pulls back, looking her in the eye. “I’m not,” he says honestly, sees how she winces. “But I _will_ be. I’ve got you, don’t I?” Gaby’s mouth quirks up in a shadow of a smile and Napoleon gives her his most winning grin, fake and obviously hastily plastered on but charming nonetheless. “There,” he says, and doesn’t stop himself from leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be fine, and it’s all over. I’ll be more careful not to get electrocuted again anytime soon.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Waverly says from the couch, and Napoleon starts, having completely forgotten the man was there. “Though, I suppose this time wasn’t really your fault, was it?” He sighs, leaning forward slightly and pulling the disk out of the slot, eyes lingering on the frayed bit of wire sticking out of the end.

“It wasn’t, sir,” Napoleon replies, and shuffles back slightly, sliding one hand down to hold Gaby’s and feeling Illya take hold of his other one, keeping him anchored, secure. He winces as a thought pops up. “Though, I will admit, the setup at the place wasn’t entirely conducive.”

He hears Illya inhale slightly too quickly for his normal patterns, the hand holding his twitching slightly. They’re small movements, miniscule, and if Napoleon hadn’t spent literal months studying the man he probably wouldn’t have even noticed them at all. As it is, he _knows_ Illya – or feels he knows quite a bit, at least – and this time it means he’s realised something. Is probably visualising the setup of where Napoleon had found him, the chair, the lightbulb – and nope, Napoleon does not want to go there. Basically, Illya has put two and two together and realised why Napoleon had been shaken at the time.

“You didn’t freeze on the job,” Waverly points out. “And that’s all I can ask.”

Napoleon looks at him, sceptical. That is nothing like what the CIA would have done.

Waverly cracks a wry smirk. “Believe it or not, Mr. Solo, I do actually care about my agents,” he says, in a tone that’s exasperated, but fond, too. “Now, I have the disk, and another successful mission to write off.” He stands, looking down at the team with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m going to go start filing my report. Miss Teller, would you care to accompany me? I think we can give these fine gentlemen a bit of time on their own.”

Oh, _no_ , Napoleon takes back any nice thought he’s ever had about Waverly. Somehow the man knows about his secret, he’s sure of it.

“Alright,” Gaby says, her tears dry as she accepts the hand Waverly offers her and clambers to her feet, a bit wobbly but still far more graceful than what Napoleon thinks he’d be able to manage at the moment. She glances down at the gun that’s laying on the floor beside her and stoops to pick it up, sliding it into her handbag before turning to look down at Napoleon. “I know you said it wasn’t my fault,” she starts, and her face is as cool and collected as ever. “But I’m still sorry.”

Napoleon smiles at her. “I know,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Gaby inclines her head and makes to leave, but only manages about two steps before she turns back, brow furrowed. She’s looking at Illya, this time, though. “You got him out,” she remembers, and Napoleon glances over his shoulder to see Illya nod, looking confused. “The report also said Rudi died.” _Oh_. Napoleon can see where this is going. “Did you kill him?”

“Not on purpose,” Illya says weakly, then swallows and looks at his knees. “I put him in his own chair. _Maybe_ I step on pedal too. I did not mean to kill him, but glitch happened. I was in other room talking to Cowboy.”

Napoleon holds his breath, watching Gaby. Her uncle was a Nazi, and a sadistic bastard, but still her uncle. He’s not entirely sure how she’s going to take it.

To his surprise, Gaby nods sharply. “Good,” she says, swift and decisive, before marching towards the door and following a grinning Waverly out, slamming it closed behind her.

Illya breathes out, and Napoleon does the same, a warm feeling rising in his chest that he knows is part affection and part pride. Their little chop shop girl really has come a long way, if the accidental murder of her uncle is met with such a blasé reaction. Maybe they can hunt down other evil family members together. Form some sort of underground service.

He relaxes back, and immediately Illya’s arm wraps around his shoulder again, and Napoleon can’t find it in himself to worry about being alone in a room with the man he’s maybe, possibly, _completely_ in love with. It’s been a hard evening, and he’s comfortable and warm and he turns his head to look up at his partner who’s watching him with a certain amount of concern still in his eyes but there’s a soft smile on his face and Napoleon can’t hold back and sits up.

He kisses Illya.

For a few, shining seconds it’s the best feeling of his entire life, but then his widen and he pulls back, because _shit_ , he just kissed Illya. 

Illya, who has shown no romantic inclination towards him, who definitely doesn’t like men the same way he does – do they train that out of them in Russia? Illya, who probably is still in love with Gaby and is just an adorable mountain of a man who hasn’t been able to admit it yet, Illya – 

– who leans forward and kisses him _back_?

And no, that’s impossible, he’s still in his panic attack and it’s just become a very believable hallucination, but the hands on his shoulders and around his waist feel so real and there’s no way those aren’t Illya’s lips, slightly chapped but mostly smooth and firm against his own. 

He gasps into the kiss, realising that this is actually happening, and Illya deepens it, running his tongue along Napoleon’s bottom lip and biting down ever so gently before pulling back. Napoleon blinks, mouth hanging open and he’s aware that he probably looks dazed and stupid but he’s just been kissed by the man he’s been pining over _forever_ so give him a break, he’s earnt a bit of shock.

“Um,” he says eloquently, and Illya _actually_ chuckles.

“You kissed me first,” he says, and alright, yeah, this back-and-forth is something Napoleon knows how to do.

“You kissed me back!” he retorts, affronted.

Illya’s smile widens. “I did,” he confirms. “I wanted to.”

“Huh,” Napoleon huffs, and he’s going to blame his earlier panic attack for being the reason he seems unable to string two sentences together when talking is his thing. That and the fact that he’s kissed Illya, twice, and hasn’t fainted yet. It’s under different circumstances than the majority of his fantasies – which included a lot less embarrassment and fear and stressful situations – but he’s not complaining. “I wanted to, too,” he admits, and it makes Illya chuckle again.

“I know,” he says. “You are not exactly subtle, Cowboy.”

“I – what – _you_ –!” Napoleon splutters, donning his best glare and reeling at the new information. “You knew all along? And you didn’t _do_ anything about it?”

Illya looks down, as if he wants to pull away, but his arms around Napoleon tighten. “I was scared,” he confesses, voice hoarser than before, and Napoleon immediately forgives him. He knows the feeling. “Боялся.I did not think it would last, or that it would be so much.” He looks up again, shyly. “But I see I was wrong. You… you scared me.”

“I understand,” Napoleon says, sliding a hand up to rest on his partner’s jaw. “I know what you mean. It’s so much, and it’s overwhelming, and you think you’re able to push it aside and it will fade.”

“Yes,” Illya says, and they’re both practically whispering now. “It doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t,” Napoleon agrees, moving the hand on Illya’s jaw to curve around the back of his head, pulling their faces even closer together. “Can I tell you something?” He smiles, a soft, genuine thing when Illya nods. “I don’t think it ever will.”

Illya smiles back and Napoleon pushes up the small distance to kiss him again, curling his fingers into his partner’s blonde hair that’s surprisingly soft under the small layer of gel holding it down. Illya kisses back, and it’s warm and good and Napoleon can’t help but deepen the kiss instinctively, sliding his unoccupied hand down Illya’s chest and right to the top of his trousers.

“You just had breakdown,” Illya reminds him, breaking the kiss and keeping Napoleon’s wandering hand captive in one of his own. “I’m not sleeping with you right now, Cowboy.”

Napoleon knows he’s right, knows that it’s the better option, for both of them, really. Thinking about it, it definitely is, because there’s no way he’s going to be at peak form tonight. “Okay, Peril,” he says, soft and low, before a hopeful thought takes hold. “But you will later?”

Illya huffs out a laugh, the air brushing over Napoleon’s lips from how close they are to each other, foreheads still pressed together. “Yes,” he agrees, and it’s just as quiet, but still sure and fond, and a clear promise that will be carried through on. “Later.”

And that’s enough, for now. Napoleon closes his eyes and lets himself surrender to Illya’s hold, allowing himself to truly relax for the first time in forever. And it’s good, he thinks to himself, feeling the way Illya keeps him steady and braced. It’s a good thing, loving. It’s not all dangerous and scary.

Finally, he has something he can call his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, PTSD wasn't actually named as such until the 80s, and wasn't officially recognised until the 90s. in this chapter Napoleon refers to it as 'gross stress reaction' which was a term coined in 1952 and was used as a term for shell shock, but also included non-war traumatic events. Essentially, they considered any issues that happened six months after a war was over to be unrelated to war, though PTSD can actually last a lifetime.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this, I quite liked writing it and it was a bit of me projecting onto Napoleon, but hopefully it still worked. Thank you for your comments and kudos, I really appreciate them!

**Author's Note:**

> So, here I am, back with a fanfic for a movie that came out five years ago.
> 
> I recently found my ticket stub from when I went to the cinema to see it in 2015, and remembered how much I adore it. Three nostalgia-induced rewatches later, I decided to write this. I also want to say ahead of time that this fic deals with PTSD, and it is a disorder that I actually have so I will be treating it appropriately and will add warnings on the chapters where it becomes applicable, specifically Chapter 3. That being said, I hope whoever ends up reading this enjoys it!


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